


Could You Cut My Hair?

by Captain_Assbut_at_221B



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, destielifyousquint, haircutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:26:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Assbut_at_221B/pseuds/Captain_Assbut_at_221B
Summary: Just some cute destiel Fluff. Sam and Dean are cute brothers. NO WINCEST!





	Could You Cut My Hair?

It was when he had been shot in the shoulder that first time that Dean let him do it. He had always done it himself, but with his good arm out of commission, he couldn’t, and now he was getting shaggy. They were sitting in the motel room, and Dean was trying to comb his ever growing mop of hair. He stood in the bathroom and pulling Sam’s brush through his hair, he whimpered a little as it caught on all the knots. Sam opened the door. “Dude, it sounds like you're having a bad time getting off in here. Are you okay?” Dean glared. “I'm fine, just trying to brush the knots out of my hair.” Sam scoffed. “Brush? You don’t have enough hair to even warrant a comb, much less a brush.” Dean sighed. “Have you seen me recently? I look like friggin’ Chewbacca!” Sam raised his eyebrows a little. “Okay, you are a little shaggy.” Dean bit his lip. “I can’t cut my hair with one hand.” Sam smiled softly. “Sit down.” Dean squinted. “On the toilet?” Sam shrugged. “Does it look like we have a chair?” Dean glared again and sat down on the closed toilet seat. Sam went over to his duffel and pulled out a pair of scissors. He walked over to Dean and carefully pulled off his shirt and draped him with a towel. “Hold still now.” He ran the scissors across his hairline and the first locks of Dean’s dark blond hair drifted to the floor. Sam was so careful. He clipped across his neckline and then reaching into his duffel he pulled out the buzzer. He bent Dean’s ears forward as he pulled the buzzer across his scalp. The hair fell in piles at his feet. He gave him a nice fade, and when he was done he trimmed the top. And pulling out Dean’s comb he combed his hair up like he always had it. And with careful, gentle hands, he used the razor and shaved Dean’s face. He did it slowly, so he wouldn’t nick him. And when he was done he wiped his face and helped him rinse his hair out in the sink. He swept up the hair, and threw it away, and they were done.  
After that, it became a bit of a tradition. Every time Dean started getting a little shaggy, Sam would sit him down on whatever motel toilet seat they had and he would cut his hair. It was like a ritual, a moment for them to be at peace. A moment for Sam to do something for Dean instead of the other way around. And they kept it up, all through the hunting, the hurting, and the hardships. When Dean came home from hell Sam was the one that cut his hair again. And when Sam leapt into the cage with Lucifer tied to him like the millstone around his neck, Dean didn’t cut his hair for a long time. It was curling around his ears by the time he stood in front of the mirror and cut his own hair. He did it nice and slow, to make sure he did it the right way. He used the same blue handled craft scissors that Sam had used that first time. And for a year, he cut his own hair. He wouldn’t let Lisa do it. To him, it was something a little sacred. His final tie to Sam. And when Sam came back, soulless and dark, Dean let it grow again. He hoped Sam would say something. But when he didn’t, he cut it himself. When death restored Sam’s soul; that was one of the first things he did. Sam sat him down on the toilet at Bobby’s and cut his hair again. It was peaceful, and as his long fingers brushed around Dean’s face as he held him steady, Dean breathed a sigh of relief.  
They kept it up through all the hell they endured. When Cass broke him, and all Sam saw was Lucifer before his eyes, when the Leviathans took Bobby, when the entire world melted before them, Sam still took time to sit him down in whatever crappy motel they were staying in, and he would cut his hair. And then Dean got sent to purgatory. And Sam couldn’t find him. He couldn’t save him. So he tried to bury the loss and death and move on. But he couldn’t. Not truly. In purgatory, Dean used his knife as well as he could to cut his hair when it would get in his eyes. He shaved with his blade. And he missed Sam like air. When he found Cass, when he lost him again, it was over and over and over, the same playbook that he had read his entire life. Death and loss followed him like loyal dogs. When he got out, and found the Sam that had buried him and left him behind, it was too hard. So he cut it himself. Sam noticed, but he knew he couldn’t say anything. He did it himself as Sam endured the trials, as Gadreel healed him, as Sam grew further and further away.  
And when he opened his eyes black, he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care that once, Sam had said ‘I love you’ by sitting him down and cutting his hair as carefully as he could. He didn’t care that Sam had once held his head steady while he shaved Dean’s face. That black eyed creature didn’t care. It didn’t care about Sam. When Sam tracked him down, he talked about when he was chained to the chair in the dungeon. He had flicked his eyes to black and laughed. “Remember when you used to cut my hair, Sammy?” He had smirked. “Remember when the only way you knew how to say that you loved me was with a pair of craft scissors?” He had hissed at him. “My hair is getting a bit long Sammy.” He bit his lip. “Wanna cut it for me? Do you still love the demon version of your brother?” Sam had ignored him and shot him up with another dose of blood. Dean had roared in pain, but he managed to hiss out his next words. “Cause I don’t love you Sammy. I never did. You were my burden. So come on Sammy!” He roared again. “Cut my hair why don’t you?” Sam had turned and walked away.  
When the cure took, for the first time since he had come back from purgatory, Sam sat him down in the bathroom of the bunker and cut his hair. He did it slowly, like he always had, and carefully, so carefully, he shaved his face. The ritual returned. And it did for a long, long time. But when the Mark became too strong, when Dean pushed him away, Sam stopped. And he never picked it back up. But one dull afternoon, when it was just Cass and Dean in the bunker, Dean looked at Cass and saw that his hair was curling around his ears. So with a calloused hand and tired eyes, he led him to the bathroom, sat him down on the closed toilet seat, and he cut his hair. He took the blue handled craft scissors, and he snipped off Castiel’s dark brown locks. And with a shaking hand, he shaved his face. He nicked him a little under his chin.  
When he was done, he pulled up a stool and sat across from him and explained what it meant, to have a Winchester cut your hair. And when he thought about how it used to feel, when Sam would hold the back of his head steady as he slid the razor across his stubble, he realized how much he missed the closeness with his brother. He looked into Castiel’s eyes and he smiled sadly. “Sam used to cut my hair. It was his way of saying that he loved me.” He bit his lip, and it drew blood. “Sammy doesn’t cut my hair anymore Cass.” He paused. “And it makes me wonder; maybe, maybe Sammy doesn’t love me anymore. After all I have done, I wouldn’t love me either.” He had wiped the blood of his lip. Castiel said nothing, but looked back at him silently. And carefully, after a moment, ever so slowly, just in case Dean didn’t want it too, Cass pulled him close and closed his lips over Dean’s. He kissed him slow and sweet and he hoped that Dean could feel his love. He hoped he felt his attempt at comfort. And when he pulled away, Dean pulled him back in. He kissed softly, and then he laid his head on Cass’s shoulder. “I love you Cass.” Castiel smiled into Dean’s collar and nodded. “I love you too Dean.”  
That night, when Sam came home, he saw Cass’s haircut, and the hickey on Dean’s neck, and he put two and two together. So he put the beer in the fridge, and he took Dean by the arm and led him to the same bathroom where only hours earlier Dean had held Cass against the shower wall and cried out in animalistic pleasure. Sam sat him down on the closed toilet seat and taking the same blue handled craft scissors, he cut his hair. He did it nice and careful, gently and slowly, just in case he hurt him. And when he was done, he held the back of Dean’s head steady as he shaved his face. His hands were steady, but he nicked him anyway.  
When he finished, he pulled up the same stool Dean had sat on and looked at his brother. Dean sighed and brushed some hair off his neck. “It's been a while.” Sam pursed his lips. “I know.” Dean looked at the piles of hair around his feet. “Sam, I know that it’s been hard. The mark is gone, but the darkness, I mean, I understand why you didn’t want to, you know.” Dean struggled with his words. He gripped the back of his neck and tried to think of what to say. But before he could form another word, Sam leaned forward suddenly and hugged his brother. “I love you Dean. I always will. No matter what happens, what you do, I will always love you.” Dean bit his lip softly. “Sammy, Cass and I…” Sam cut him off. “I know. I've known longer than you have okay?” Sam smiled. “And it’s okay.” Dean smiled into Sam’s shoulder. It wasn’t until then that he became aware of the tears on his cheeks. Sam pulled back and wiped a tear from Dean’s freshly shaven face. “Now sweep this up.” Dean stood and laughed. “Bitch.” Sam grinned and handed him the broom. “Jerk.”


End file.
